


Multilingual

by In_Cogito



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: ASL, American Sign Language, Anxiety, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Mute!Malcolm, selective mutism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27334993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/In_Cogito/pseuds/In_Cogito
Summary: "Say what you need to say, kid.  I'm listening."Mute!Malcolm AU.  A retelling of the first 11 episodes, with some extra content thrown in.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & Gabrielle Le Deux
Comments: 36
Kudos: 80





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Woot, multi chapter fic! 
> 
> I can't remember what originally gave me the idea, but I kind of became enamored with the idea of Mute!Malcolm. He already does some crazy stuff in the show. I think his actions would become a lot more powerful in the event that he is unable to speak or is used to having people talk for him or over him. 
> 
> By all means, do proceed!

_New York, 1999_

Mother said she loved him. And that was why she was making him do this: Sit in the car and go to talk to another grown-up that he couldn’t talk to. Malcolm looked out the car window and up at a grey New York sky that didn’t feel like home and out to a city that still had Dr. Martin Whitly in it. That still made Mother mad. Maybe Malcolm shouldn’t have said anything at all that night. But as the car pulled into a parking space behind a faded brick office complex, Malcolm remembered that not talking was the problem. It meant he was broken somehow. 

Mother said she loved him, but that her love clearly wasn’t enough to help. 

She looked tired when she stepped out of the driver’s seat and opened the passenger side door. She glanced down at the teddy bear he had his arms wrapped around, but didn’t comment on it. Just a few weeks ago, he was too old for it. But now she was making an exception. “Come on, Malcolm.” She was unbuckling his seatbelt like he was crippled and not mute. “We’re already late. They might let it go because it’s your first time, but let’s try not to make a habit of this. You understand?” 

Malcolm climbed down with his mother’s hands still on his shoulders. He couldn’t say yes. He couldn’t say no. He couldn’t even move his head. Everything was so big. The box. The girl. The week he couldn’t remember. The hole left behind in his family after he did what he thought was the right thing. And he was so small. In the end, he could only manage to look down at the concrete as he walked. Anything else made him feel sick and dizzy. Not even hugging his bear seemed to help much. 

He could feel her eyes on him. She was disappointed. Again. The ride in the elevator was quiet, except for the occasional sigh on her part. Malcolm’s lips were kept shut and he didn’t even whine when his ears popped from the pressure. 

The receptionist’s office wasn’t anything special. It was all fake plants and pretty paintings and old magazines, the same as any other waiting room. The boy picked a chair and took a seat before he was ordered to do so. Mother was sincere, in her own way. Lips red, fingers flittering about. She apologized and of course, it was alright because the lady at the front desk “knew how children could be sometimes,” too. Mother didn’t do anything wrong. As usual. 

A door handle clicked. Malcolm looked up at the white door at the far end on his right. Another lady peeked out from behind. Her hair was all curls and she had sunshine woven into her dress. She smiled at him. A different kind of smile. “You must be Malcolm.” She knelt down so that she could meet him eye to eye, yet kept her distance between his chair and her door. 

“Dr. Le Deux, I am _so sorry_ .” Mother cut in as quickly as she could. “I told him that we had an appointment coming up and he _knew_ about it at the beginning of the week but he just wouldn’t get out of bed and I couldn’t-”

“That’s quite alright, Ms. Whitly.” The lady, Dr. Le Deux didn’t stand up but spoke directly to mother. “Therapy can be daunting at first. I understand. There’s absolutely nothing to apologize for.” 

“I assure you, I did everything I could-”

“Ms. Whitly.”

Mother went quiet for a complete stranger. That never happened. Even now when she so often found herself at a loss for what to do or say. Malcolm stayed still and watched. Dr. Le Deux didn’t budge. She never raised her voice. Something much more powerful fueled her words. “There’s nothing to apologize for,” she said again. 

Mother wavered on her high heels and took a step back. Malcolm took the opportunity to leave the waiting room chair and enter the new room: Dr. Le Deux’s domain. He would have to at one point, anyways. He was old enough and smart enough to know that. Besides, Mother and the therapist were still standing by the receptionist’s desk, eyeing each other down. Essentially, the grown-ups were still talking. 

“Do you remember what we discussed,” asked the therapist. 

“ . . . Yes. I just think that-”

“You don’t have to understand it. Or even agree with it. All I am asking is that you respect it.” And Dr. Le Deux walked into the room after Malcolm and closed the door before mother could protest any further. 

The boy looked around the room and reluctantly took a seat in one of the bean bag chairs in the middle of the room. In front of them was a faded love seat. Behind that was a modest desk. Bits of furniture had been placed and pressed up against the green walls. Stuffed animals, a shag rug, the large windows and the colorful curtains drawn over the dreary afternoon. It made the room feel full and lived in. Nonetheless, Malcolm was wary. This was not a child’s room. It was simply decorated to look like a child’s room. 

“Your mom is very worried about you.”

Malcolm looked up as Dr. Le Deux took a seat on the floor in front of him. Eye level, once again. It was always like this, every adult around him set the stage and toed around the issue and broke it all down like he was some fragile idiot. Something pure that must be preserved, even though that was no longer the case. But he was a child and he could still hear his mother’s high heels click restlessly just outside the closed door. It was his job to play along. Malcolm nodded in agreement with Dr. Le Deux. 

“I have no doubt that it’s because she loves you.”

Of course. It was true. Mother loved him, loved him so much that she made him do things he didn’t like for his own good. Even if he could speak, there was no point. You don’t fight against a mother’s love. 

“Malcolm.”

Malcolm didn’t say anything. 

“I don’t have to tell your mom about everything that happens here. And you don’t have to tell her anything you’re not comfortable sharing, even if she pressures you to share. It’s not your job to make her happy.”

The boy looked again at the closed door. The shadow of his mother’s feet had disappeared and the waiting room outside had gone quiet. Good thing. Mother would not be pleased to hear another adult tell him such things. Strangely enough, though he knew this, he was not afraid. Not yet. He would be soon, surely. For now, it was him and the therapist. The woman who wore no makeup, whose skin was as dark and rich as the premium coffee he was too young for, whose eyes were as warm as his blankets back home. The woman, the one who knew more than he ever could.

“It might not feel like it, but you are allowed to set that boundary if you feel the need to. And when you’re ready to talk, you can tell me absolutely anything.” 

Malcolm considered her words. They weren’t orders, per say. They weren’t dressed up like orders, anyways. And that’s what confused Malcolm the most. Authority was a regal and powerful thing. Only when it was challenged or ignored did it need to become a swift and incisive karma, full of shouting that made him feel small. It was even desperate at times, especially that fateful night in his dad’s hobby room. But this was different. It was gentle. It . . . cozied up to him. Curled around his feet and didn’t demand anything. There was a comfort in it, even though he wasn’t very pleasant to be around at the moment. 

“I have an idea.”

Dr. Le Deux rose from her spot and made her way to the rack of stacked bins in the corner of the room. She produced a pad of paper from the bottom tray and a handful of crayola markers from the third one up. And she came right back and sat down in the same spot as before. “It’s going to take a little bit of time and a lot of work before you really feel comfortable here. But that’s ok. We’ll start with a few small, but meaningful steps and keep going from there. It won’t feel like it, but it’s enough. For now, at least. ” 

Malcolm nodded as the woman set the items down in front of him. He chose a black marker. Pens came in black ink. Black was the proper color for writing. He knew that. And he knew what was really going on, even if everyone around him decided that he was just a kid. He positioned the marker between three fingers like it were a proper writing utensil and started at the top of the page. When he was done, he held the paper up to Dr. Le Deux. 

_Are you going to fix me?_

Dr. Le Deux frowned. “Now who said that you needed to be fixed?”

Malcolm didn’t say anything. Terror seized his heart and grabbed his throat like a vice. He shouldn’t have written that down. 

“Nevermind,” huffed Dr. Le Deux. “You don’t have to tell me. I think I already have an idea who.” She was quiet for a few moments. Thoughtful. “Malcolm, do you know why people go to therapy?” 

Malcolm gripped the black marker with his fist and forced his answer onto the paper. _Because they’re crazy._

“That’s . . . That’s not the whole truth.” 

Dr. Le Deux was finally giving into the weight in the air around them. It seemed as though she was starting to drop the act. But looking at her face and the shadows deepening the lines around her eyes, the boy thought that maybe there was no act in the first place. There was no stage. He wasn’t being directed or taken by the hand to the proper points or the proper ideas. Malcolm couldn’t take his mind off of it, and yet at the same time couldn’t put the feeling into words or what it could mean. So instead, he listened to the person talking to him. 

“There are some people out there who are . . . very sick. Sometimes they have very funny ideas about the world around them and they aren’t themselves. Sometimes they’re hurting very badly and they can’t get better on their own. A lot of the time, the ones who need help the most don’t really want it. Getting help can be scary. Change can be scary.

“But I don’t come across a lot of those cases. I just help people who have been hurt and need some extra help getting back on their feet. People like you. And I’m not the only one. A lot of us worked very hard and went to school for a very long time to be able to do what we think is the right thing.” She pointed to the wall behind her. Malcolm could see two pieces of paper hanging up in fancy picture frames. Gabrielle Le Deux, Ph.D in Psychology, University of Chicago. Gabrielle Le Deux, Bachelor’s in Child Psychology, University of Chicago. 

Malcolm crossed out the old message and wrote a new one for the woman. _Are you helping me because I broke my family?_

“What makes you think you broke your family?” 

His throat felt tight again. But what did it matter? She knew. It was too late. There was no taking back what he did. He knew that. He thought about it every day since the night he made the call. There was so much he wanted to say. I’m sorry. I love you. I’m scared. Please don’t be mad at me. What’s going to happen to us now? Are we going to be ok? But no. He couldn’t say anything. He couldn’t even cry. How could something hurt so much that he couldn’t cry? His grip tightened on the pad of paper. Everything was changing again. The gaping hole in his family wasn’t enough. Now he would be pulled and smothered between these two worlds, between the tooth-achingly sweet corner here, where he would sit still and be told what he wanted to hear, and the big, cold, frightful “out there”, where he would be pushed and pushed and pushed to do the thing that ruined everything in the first place. 

The blank paper felt so big. And he, the child, the _problem_ , felt so small. 

“Malcolm. Look at me.” There was a pause while she waited. “I’m not forcing you to talk before you’re ready. No matter what anyone says, getting better isn’t something you can rush. You wouldn’t expect someone with a broken leg to get up the next morning like nothing happened. Why would I expect the same thing from you?”

The paper remained blank.

“You don’t believe me?”

Still nothing. Only stillness. She could yell at him if she wanted to. Really let him have it. The door was closed, after all. 

“. . . Wait here. I think I have something that might help.” She didn’t sound angry. Not at all. Dr. Le Deux rose up and walked to the bookshelf and pulled down a book from the very top. A big, brown one, with pictures of hands on the cover. She brought it back to show him. “Do you know what these are,” she asked, tapping on one of the images. 

Malcolm gave him a big, firm nod. Of course he knew. He wrote his answer on the paper, eager to think about something else, and showed it to Dr. Le Deux. _Gang signs._ She laughed at that. But not in a mean way. The sound was soft and warm. It reminded Malcolm of the windchimes he would sometimes hear when he and his sister went to the park to play. 

“No, they’re not gang signs,” she said. “It’s a language for people who can’t speak.” Worn fingers pulled the cover open and the spine gave a small crack. The pages had aged into a soft, pale yellow. A chart blanketed the first page. The alphabet, each letter with a corresponding hand sign. “If someone can’t hear others talk, like when they’re deaf, this is how they can communicate with them. It’s also a big help for those who just struggle with speech for other reasons. Maybe they have autism or they’re mute. So,” she straightened up and Malcolm’s gaze snapped up immediately, “For example, if I wanted to introduce myself, it would be something like . . .”

Hello. My name is Gabrielle. Malcolm couldn’t tear his eyes away. The paper pad sat forgotten in his lap and the marker slowly dried out as Dr. Le Deux’s hands glided through the air. They were dancing, even, slow and practiced, fingers much more nimble than any of the footwork he had seen in his ballet classes. Her salute went out. Her hand came in. She tapped twice on the tips of her fingers and spelled her name without missing a single beat. “Do you want to try,” she asked. 

Malcolm nodded.

“Ok. So you would say . . . Hello . . .”

Malcolm copied the motion, hand parallel to the floor, palm down, positioned at his forehead and moving out. 

“My name is . . .”

Five fingers splayed against his chest. Two left fingers. Two right fingers. Tap twice. 

“And then you finger spell your name out. The chart’s right here. So that’s M, A, L . . .”

C. O. L. M. He froze after that, feeling light and full all at once. _Hello. My name is Malcolm._

Dr. Le Deux smiled again. It was warm and proud. It had been weeks since he had seen something so beautiful. “It’s very nice to meet you, Malcolm.” 

And that’s when it set in, like the sun breaking over the horizon, like an answered prayer. He did it. All by himself. And Gabrielle listened. He ran through the motions again, now quicker and more fluid in spite of his short, stubby fingers _Hello. My name is Malcolm._ The tightness in his chest loosened and trickled out. Something else rose up and overflowed. A sob raked up his throat and the tears wouldn’t stop, even though he wasn’t sad. 

Adults didn’t like it when he cried. Still, Dr. Le Deux let him cry. 

After a minute or two she gave his shoulder a gentle tap. She was offering him tissues from a purple cardboard box. Malcolm accepted. His face was a mess. Halfway through his second tissue a thought struck him. He tore through the book until he found what he was looking for. There was a chance he would mess up but he didn’t care. Dr. Le Deux would understand. She would listen. He was hesitant when he found the right word, but tried anyway. Hand to his mouth, fingertips on his lower lip, palm inward. And then he . . . moved it out. Awkwardly, he would admit. A drawing of an arrow wasn’t as helpful as being shown by another person. 

Dr. Le Deux still looked pleased. “You’re welcome,” she replied. 

Malcolm let himself smile back. Maybe this was a child’s room after all. 

“Would you like to learn more?”

He went back to the first chart and spelled out his answer. Y. E. S. 

“I’m glad to hear it. How about . . . I know. I started off by introducing myself. So if you wanted to meet someone, maybe ask ‘what is your name,’ it would look like . . .”

* * *

Jessica Whitly would remember it as one of the longest hours she ever had to endure. Hell, it wasn’t even a full hour. They showed up late. Because of course they did. Her son sat behind the closed door with a stranger and all she could think about was the bottle of shiraz she kept tucked away in the pantry back home. Until, finally, footsteps stirred from behind the door and her precious boy walked out with Dr. Le Deux following behind. But his bear was gone. The therapist was holding it. And Malcolm had his arms wrapped around a book almost as big as his head. Jessica rose to her feet. “He’s not taking his bear?” 

Dr. Le Deux smiled. “He said he wanted to leave it here. I think he wants to help the other kids who come here for therapy.” 

Said? Said! A deluge of relief washed over Jessica. “So he’s speaking? I can talk to my son again?” A mother wouldn’t just demand to know. A mother _needed_ to know. 

The therapist didn’t reply right away. The mother waited. No answer came. Panic reared its ugly head and Jessica felt dread prickle across her skin. But then the doctor leaned around the mother and spoke to Malcolm, who had already taken a seat on a waiting room chair and had the book cracked open in his lap. “Malcolm?”

Her son immediately looked up, listening. Absorbing. 

“Do you want to show your mother what you learned today?” 

What he learned? What did he learn? The mother didn’t have time to ponder those questions, not when her son’s eyes lit up for the first time since the arrest. Malcolm waved at her. Was it a wave? No, more of a salute. And a hand on his chest and strange hand symbols in the air. 

Malcolm finished, holding up a hand with his pinkie, pointer finger, and thumb sticking out and bringing that hand to his face, fingers splayed and thumb touching his chin. He waited for her, like she was supposed to get it, whatever the hell that was. Like she was in the wrong, like she was missing some sign. 

Sign. Signs. 

Oh. Jessica knew exactly what was going on. “Malcolm, go wait outside.” 

Her son didn’t move. 

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

The boy recoiled (a heartbreaking sight, but she couldn’t dwell on it), closed the book and exited the waiting room. Jessica kept an eye on his through the glass. He plopped himself down on the floor and opened the book again. The mother turned to the so-called doctor, eyes glaring daggers, lips dripping venom. Anything less was too kind. “What did you do to my child?”

Le Deux was unphased. “I think it’s a bit early in treatment to see any major change. But I was able to provide him with a couple of tools to use in the meantime. Malcolm is a fast learner. Very bright, too.” 

“But he’s _not speaking_.”

“He’s not ready to speak yet.” Gentleness. Sympathy. Jessica hated the sound of it. “Being in a rush to fix what’s broken isn’t as helpful as we would hope. Recovery is a process. Not a quick fix.” 

“This isn’t recovery! He’s not facing the issue like this- He’s only avoiding it!” 

“It might seem that way, but in time-”

“He can’t cope like this!” 

Le Deux was silent. Jessica went for the jugular. 

“You don’t know what my son needs.” 

And that was supposed to be that. The final blow, the _coup de grâce_. But it wasn’t. Le Deux’s face went blank, then cold and hard. Her eyes narrowed. The air around her seemed to simmer and hiss with a quiet rage. She never raised her voice when she asked, “Then why did you bring him to me in the first place?” 

The mother bristled. She opened her mouth . . .

. . . and slowly closed it. Her throat and chest felt clogged with shame and defeat. Dr. Le Deux was right. Jessica suddenly remembered where she was, that there was a girl at the front desk who heard everything and that there was a check to be written. Perhaps the doctor was entitled to a couple extra hundred for today’s session. For her troubles, of course. 

She didn’t look up. But she could tell Malcolm was watching, that he heard more than a boy going through what he was going through should be forced to hear. 

“Ms. Whitly.” 

Ms. Whitly finished the line following the written dollar amount and stopped. 

“I’m going to ask you a very fair question. It is not a question that is meant to attack you or insult what you’re doing as a parent. But I want you to answer honestly. And I want you to think for a minute before you answer. Don’t just say the first thing that comes to mind. Is that alright?” 

Empathy. Compassion. For a moment it didn’t make sense. Dr. Le Deux’s background and practice specialized in children. But Jessica remembered the content of their emails and phone calls and it was clear that the good doctor would have a word with the parents if she felt the need to. The mother felt like a fool. Pride and anger drove her to bite the hand she sought out in the first place. And for what? She looked over her shoulder and out to the other side of the glass. Malcolm started back at her. And then he looked down at the American Sign Language book, grinding his fists together and learning more words. Jessica sighed and turned back to the professional. “Ok.”

“When you brought Malcolm here, what were you hoping would happen?”

 _That he would be alright_ , came the thought. _That he could talk to me again. That I could have my son back. That I could hear his precious voice again._ The reasons tumbled in her mind so quickly that she was hardly able to take them one by one and analyze them. But something about them felt wrong. The first one, especially. If that really was all she wanted, then why did she become so angry? If she really was the loving mother she was, the loving mother she was supposed to be, wouldn’t the book and the new lessons be enough? Shouldn’t she be happy with Malcolm’s progress, no matter what that looked like?

Dr. Le Deux didn’t speak. She remained ever quiet and patient. She didn’t judge. Jessica felt her eyes mist and her voice crack. She didn’t care who saw. If the receptionist was still there it was little more than a footnote in the grander scheme. “I just want things to go back to the way they were.” 

Malcolm started ballet eight months ago. And it was hard. He didn’t have a lot of the grace or control ballet often required, not to mention that many of the other students (boys and girls alike) had years and years of practice when Malcolm was just beginning. It was understandably frustrating. Jessica could still remember how he would stay up late to practice. Always groaning, always pulling his posture back up and slumping in on himself again. Jessica caught him in the act. And he complained. There was no point, it's too hard, this and that. The poor thing was tearing himself up over it and it stopped being fun. That was when Jessica offered to help. Sure, she was many, many years out of practice. That didn’t bother either one of them. It helped that Jessica shared a few stories from her classes. Malcolm opened up and shared a few of his own. He made friends. He got better. He started having fun again. _They_ were having fun. 

Jessica Whitly never thought she could miss something so ordinary as badly as this. But here she was. Human, just like everyone else. 

How damning. 

A hand on her shoulder brought her back to the waiting room. It was Gabrielle. And she knew. _Of course_ she knew. Her eyes said it all. 

“I’m sorry,” she began. “I know you want the best for him. But I work in therapy. Not miracles. You can’t expect him to be talking, let alone to have made peace with this, in under a month. That’s not how this works. And it’s not fair to either of you to expect that.” 

The weight of defeat was heavy around the mother. It was true. That was exactly why it hurt so much to hear. “I understand.” 

“. . . You could learn with him,” Gabrielle offered. “Not only would it facilitate learning, but it would be a wonderful way for you two to bond. Build trust. Help him feel safe enough to talk to you, no matter what method he decides to use.” 

A wonderful way to bond and build trust. Jessica held her tongue but the rage never stopped burning within her. After everything, _she_ was _still_ the villain. It wasn’t enough that she was stained with a sin she didn’t commit. She had to pick up the pieces all by herself, too. She just wanted everything to be right again, but no. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t fair. Not to her, not to Malcolm- Nevermind that it was her against everyone and she never threw the first punch! Nevermind that the blood was on that bastard’s hands and not her’s! Obviously! _Obviously!_

“ . . . Here.”

Jessica looked up to see a business card being presented to her. But not one advertising the therapist in front of her.

“My practice only encompasses so much. There isn’t a lot I can do you for you. But there’s another therapist who works just a few floors above me. I can help you be a better mother. He can help you be a better you. And I’m sure he would be more than happy to coordinate a time and a day to come in.” 

Ms. Whitly bristled. “What are you saying?”

“Nothing that is meant to insult or attack you.” Dr. Le Deux set the business card on the counter. “You won’t regret considering your options. Nor is there a rush to make a decision.” 

“I understand more than enough, thank you.” Jessica snatched up the business card, smacked the check on the front desk, and stuffed her checkbook back into her Louis Vuitton handbag. “ _Good day_ , Dr. Le Deux.”

Jessica left as quickly as her high heels would allow. Malcolm jumped up and scurried after her and into the elevator. He didn’t need to be called. The doors closed and it was only until they were already halfway down that Jessica realized she didn’t schedule Malcolm’s next appointment. She huffed. Whatever. She could call. Email. Some other shit. The woman took a steadying breath. No, no. Happy thoughts. Happy place. The appointment was over and it was only a matter of time before Jessica could cozy up on the couch and enjoy a glass of wine. Or a bottle. She could figure that out when she got home. Whatever she needed to do to put a bad day behind her. 

She felt a small hand tug on the hem of her dress. “What is it, Malcolm?”

The motion stopped and the hand disappeared. Malcolm didn’t say anything. 

“Of course.”

She couldn’t get into the shiraz fast enough. 


	2. Pilot:A

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I guess I want to kind of retell the first 11 episodes with this AU. They really were my favorite because of how personal the conflict and the struggle was. I love that shit. And while it does feel like territory that's already been tread, I hope you guys stick around and like what you read. 
> 
> I also felt kind of iffy writing the conflict the way that I did. If it doesn't make sense for the characters to act the way that they do, I absolutely want to know. 
> 
> This is probably the point where I put in the "No Beta" tag. I hope you enjoy, anyways!

_New York, 2019_

Gil Arroyo took another look at the blue New York sky and went back to staring at his phone. The last message he got from the kid said he would be here in ten minutes. That was fifteen minutes ago. The lieutenant looked left. And then right, eyes following the fence separating the park walkway from the glistening body of water on the other side. A lot of people had the right idea, coming out here. Some with their kids, some with their lovers, some with their dogs. And some by themselves, which sounded just as pleasant to the older man. Many of which had paper cups full of things that would compliment the cold rather than just combat it. Tea, coffee, that bone broth that had become so popular lately. 

Gil rocked forward on his feet, and then leaned back against the car. Malcolm was late. It wasn’t like him to be late, especially not by so much. 

Unless he was still torn up by what happened, which was entirely possible. 

Gil scrolled up further in their text chat until he found the message sent at the end of last week. _FBI let me go._ The older man hadn’t been able to get any details beyond that. But he wasn’t mad. The kid was always like this. But he always came around, too. Gil took a breath in and let it out. Malcolm would talk when he was ready. He always did. 

The lieutenant gave another once around the park when something in the corner of his eye caught his attention. A man. Long, black coat, brown hair slicked back. A satchel hug off his left shoulder and rested on his right hip. He leaned against the trunk of the Le Mans and busied himself with what appeared to be a sketchbook and with a simple yet intense drawing of what appeared to be a woman’s eyes. Gil stood up straight and approached the man. “You’re kidding me, right?”

The man startled, turning around and clutching the sketchbook to his chest, blue eyes wride and bright while he waited for what would happen next. 

“Didn’t I tell you not to sneak up on me like that? I thought you knew better.”

The man removed himself from the back of the vehicle. He seemed confused at first, but then rolled his eyes as if to say “oh, of course.” He closed his sketchbook and tucked it under his arm and freed his hands up. He put one on his chest, then reached up to fashion a letter “d” and hold it up by his ear-

“That’s a lie and you know it. Smartass.” 

The man froze. Gil was the first to break the silence with his laughter. The man- Malcolm- grinned wide, set the sketchbook on the back of the trunk and threw his arms around the older man. A firm clap on the back of the shoulder punctuated the embrace. Twenty years and seeing this kid would never get old, would never fail to bring him joy or grey his hair. They say that you have children when you’re ready to love something more than yourself. And for a long time, he and Jackie just didn’t think it was in the cards for them. Not until an ordinary phone call to the police led to the arrest of a serial killer responsible for at least twenty-three murders. Not until a boy was left without a father and a cop decided to take that duty upon himself, no matter how hard it would prove to be. In the end, it was all worth it. 

“I missed you too, kid.” Hopefully it was enough to say all that and more. 

They pulled away and Gil finally got a good look at him. Ten years was a long time. And Malcolm had aged in a way that raw dedication often did. A shadow of days-old stubble lined his jaw and the bones in his face seemed harder and stronger then when he was in college. Creases formed around his eyes. And the bags hung like old, faded scars against his usual pallor. Malcolm lost weight, too. Again. From the looks of it, he let some of his worst habits run rampant whilst studying, training, working for the FBI. But then again, it wouldn’t be the type of thing he would bring up with them or that they would care about. 

But he was still here. Still fighting in his own way. 

Gil almost missed how Malcolm was avoiding eye contact. It could mean any number of things, namely that something was bothering him or that he was, yet again, stuck in his own head. This time, he had a good reason. If they were in a physical room, the elephant might not be able to fit in properly. Ten years was a long time to go without using a language, after all. And they needed to know it if they were going to be speaking again, if only because of how much it meant to the kid. Gil remembered countless afternoons the two of the spent pouring over ASL books and sipping lemonade. All that hard work, all the fun they had. Years and years of it. And so much of it could have come undone through, frankly, no one’s fault. Gil was finally seeing this kid after ten years and they had a pretty big barrier to climb. 

On the bright side, maybe this was just the refresher Gil needed. 

Only one way to find out. 

Gil put a hand on the back of Malcolm’s neck and gave a firm stroke. It was a prompt, in a way. Malcolm responded by looking up. “What’s the matter? You’ve got that spooked-puppy dog look goin’ on.” 

The kid wasn’t stupid. He knew, too. He had to have known, but was willing to try and earnest anyways. Malcolm stepped back, his front facing Gil. His movements were slow and articulate, much like when they were first learning together. Maybe that was for the best. The older man’s comprehension of the language had atrophied, in a sense. But he didn’t panic. Simply focused on Malcolm’s hands in the air. Hand on his chest. A fist, thumb out and dragging down the length of his chin, coming down on the other hand with the pointer finger and thumb extended. Hand flat, swooping under his chin. And then a finger pointing got himself. 

“So what you’re saying is that your sister lied to you. Do I have that right?” 

Malcolm’s eyes widened and relief washed over his whole form. He put up a closed hand and made a knocking motion. Or rather, a nodding motion, as if he hand were its own head. _Yes,_ he was saying. Rather enthusiastically. 

Ok. Ok! They could make this work after all! “A reporter lying,” Gil quipped. “Never heard of that one, before.” 

Malcolm shook his head, Clapped his thumb and first two fingers together. _No, no, no._ He kept speaking. A thumb under his chin. A “Y” symbol arching down into his open palm. Two hands in front of him, one giving two quick strokes to the back of the other. Gil thought for a moment. Not that easy? Wait, not quite. _Not that simple_ , Malcolm said. 

Gil had heard Malcolm speak a handful of times throughout the years. First the warning about his own well being. Then requests to visit. And eventually small, ordinary things like permission to use the restroom or when Jackie was going to get better. It meant a lot when the kid spoke. That didn’t mean Gil was keeping track of aiming for a score of some kind. Selective mutism wasn’t something Malcolm was proud to admit to, but it was damning in its own way. That was a big reason why Gil stepped up in the way he did. Mutism was an obstacle, not a punishment. And Malcolm didn’t deserve to be alone at a time when he probably needed someone the most. 

“Hold on, slow down.” 

Malcolm froze mid sentence and shot Gil an exasperated look. 

“Kid, I’m rusty. You’re either going to have to finger spell this next part out for me or go a bit slower. The choice is yours.” 

He complied. Not reluctantly, but his frustration was visible nonetheless. He proceeded to spell out his entire thought process, beginning to end, with a single hand. The ASL alphabet. Gil couldn't forget it if he tried. And even though he was getting on in years, he had the attention span to keep up, was able to piece together what exactly Malcolm was worried about. Seemed like he couldn’t jump from letter to letter fast enough, even switched hands when he got tired. Guess it was a long time for the both of them, not just Gil. 

He could piece together what the younger man was worried about. More or less, that is. Mainly about his sister, the reasons she could have for lying, the automatic tells and such. When you have two eyes and a mouth that doesn’t want to work, you tend to notice things. That’s how it was with the kid. At least it explained the drawing of the eyes he was working on only a few minutes ago. Half way through his own sentence, Malcolm froze. The gears were turning. He didn’t even blink. His feet seemed to move on their own and he signed to himself, abridged and restrained movements that he kept tucked in tight. He was putting the pieces together. Gil spoke up to offer a bit of help. 

“You know why I called you out there?” 

Malcolm spun around, looking at Gil with trepidation and hope. He coupled a word of ASL with an inquiring look. One hand on the other, with the pointed finger slotted into the curve between the pointer and middle fingers. _Case?_

Gil smiled at him. “I need a profiler.” 

It was supposed to be the light at the end of the tunnel for the kid. After being let go from the FBI, a new position so readily available for him should have been his bread and butter, the oasis after wandering endlessly in a hopeless desert. He’d have structure. He could be with people. Beyond that, he could still apply his seemingly endless passion for psychology in a field that needed it. But Malcolm didn’t move. He stood still, looking lost, even as Gil was ready to hop back behind the wheel. 

“What’s the matter?” Why was he doubting himself? 

And that was when Malcolm tried to shut down the conversation completely. In his own way, of course. He put up a quick sign, his trademark _I’m fine_ : Open hand with the tip of his thumb pressed into his sternum. He snatched his sketchbook off the back of the trunk and climbed into the front passenger side. He signed for Gil to proceed. Left hand under right, palms facing towards each other, left hand rushing out. _Go._ Two fists, as if holding a steering wheel, moving out in the direction of the road before them. _Drive._

Gil stared back at him suspiciously. Malcolm went still when he realized that he wasn’t going to let this go. He went still, resigned to his fate. Yes. There were times when he would need to talk, to admit the truth no matter how that happened. Mutism couldn’t be used as an excuse forever. They both knew it. 

Oh. Maybe that was the issue. 

“No one’s going to force you to talk, kid.” 

Bright had a look on his face like he had been caught red handed. And like he didn’t entirely trust what Gil was saying. 

“I’m serious. We can go, you can have a look around, and we’ll be out. Ten minutes, tops. I don’t have to tell anyone who you are or why you’re there. Sure as hell won’t be telling them anything you don’t want them to know. All you have to focus on is getting back in the groove of things.”

Malcolm still didn’t seem convinced. 

“Please?”

That seemed to get his attention. 

“I want you to be here for this one.”

He was a tough kid, in his own way. After every work relationship he had made over the past ten years came to an abrupt end, building those relationships from the ground up would be difficult. That didn’t change the fact that Malcolm was wanted. Needed, even. He just needed a reminder every now and again. 

Malcolm stared at the dashboard. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Gil didn’t miss how Malcolm clenched a fist in his lap. And finally, he nodded and signed his agreement. _I’m fine._ Of course. _Let’s go._

“Thanks, kid.” The engine roared to life and they were off. 

* * *

The elevator is just a hair more crowded than Detective Powell was comfortable with. 

The elevator wasn’t the main culprit, though it helped. Then there was the crowd. Lieutenant Arroyo stood front and center dressed in his usual black turtleneck and jacket, a balm for her eyes against the pristine tones of the complex. His sturdy and dense presence was as much of a comfort to her as it had always been. That being said, she wanted off. And out. And away from the Lieutenant’s pasty-looking plus one. 

Arroyo wasn’t holding the file she gave him. As in he hadn’t taken it back yet after it had been plucked out of his hands. 

Detective Powell had been working with the New York police department long enough to discern the familiar faces from the unfamiliar. Outside of the zombies who worked on Tanaka’s team, she didn’t recall seeing someone who looked so tired and sickly. Nor had she seen anyone soak up the contents of the Medical Examiner’s report with such voracious intrigue. There was something more than blue brightening those eyes and it sent off warning bells for her. She looked up. About ten floors left to go until they reached the crime scene. Powell broke the ice. “So how do you two know each other?” 

“Work. Where else?” The Lieutenant’s answer was quick and cool. Almost like it came preloaded. Suspicious. And one of the few instances in which Dani’s trust issues proved useful. 

Powell hummed and leaned forward to better address the other man. “So what’s your side of the story?”

The plus one glanced up, looking-

“He’s not much of a talker,” Gil supplied. 

The plus one was eager to bury his nose back in the file. But not before giving the Lieutenant a thankful look that he didn’t notice. 

Powell settled back on her heels. “Clearly.”

And that was all she needed to confirm it. The Lieutenant was covering for him, keeping mum about who he was and why he was here. First thing that came to mind was a federal agency. FBI; CIA; Other acronym that ended with a vowel. If that was the case then there was more to the body upstairs than she would want to admit. She stole another glance at the plus one. He had already been staring back, expression strangely serene. Unreadable. 

Their eyes met. And he went back to reading the M.E.’s report. 

Dani had no idea what this guy was thinking or what he wanted or why. And that sent the worst type of chill cavorting up and down her spine. 

The elevator doors opened and the plus one practically jumped out, fishing a small notepad and a ballpoint pen from out of his pocket. Before he even had gloves on. What a dumbass. He didn’t stop for anyone, it seemed, weaving past the personnel dotting the victim’s apartment and seeming to ignore the Lieutenant's order to “play nice” with the others. Even Detective Tarmel had to swerve out of the way just so they wouldn’t run into each other. 

Tarmel looked after Plus One with annoyance and disturbance. And then looked at Powell with a baffled expression. Lieutenant couldn’t be bothered to offer much more, either, shrugging and the corner of his mouth pulling upward, a wordless “it is what it is.” 

She huffed. Nothing left to do but set up shop on the other side of the body. She walked over and squatted to look at the corpse. 

Vanessa Hobbs. 43, unmarried. Wealthy enough to retire three times over. Housekeeping found the body at around dawn, but no reports of suspicious activity had been reported the night before. Time of death was estimated to be around twelve hours ago. The detective eyes the corpse head to toe. She was laying face down. One of her black high heels came off, thus suggesting a trip and fall or collapse. A broken champagne glass laid not too far off. More questions popped up. Was she alone at the time of death? Could she have been poisoned? It was possible. Not a spec of blood could be found on the white carpet and maybe it would explain the broken glass. But that didn’t point them to who could have done it. 

A hand gloved in blue entered the detective’s field of vision and two fingers pressed against the victim’s neck. Of course, the hand belonged to Plus One. Dani’s lips pressed together into a thin line. “You do realize that she’s dead, right?” 

Plus One looked up. 

“You’re not gonna find a pulse.”

He made a side-to-side nod as if to say “yeah, I guess” and went back to inspecting the body. He reached down to pull open the victim’s mouth open slightly and look inside. 

She tried again. “So . . . What? You consulting or something?”

A nod. He opened the notepad, clicked his pen, and positioned the pad on the back of his left hand, writing with his right. It might have been cute if it were anyone else doing it. 

Dani was getting fed up. “Is there a problem?”

“Easy, Detective. Just let the man work, yeah?”

The detective whipped her head to her left. The Lieutenant stood with Detective Tarmel at the end of the hallway that led to the crime scene. Powell stood up and opened her mouth-

“Like I said, he’s not much of a talker. Doesn’t mean he’s hiding anything.” 

“So there’s no way for him to say that himself?” J.T. cut in at that moment, thankfully just as fed up with the situation as Dani was. 

“He’s gonna be done in five minutes. You two know that, right?”

“Yeah. And you’re putting in a lot of effort to excuse his being here.” 

“As I have every right to.”

“Look, Gil, I-” Dani’s voice caught in her throat. Plus One was still in the room. And she was already pushing things by talking to the Lieutenant like this, someone she owed so much to. But if she didn’t say something now, what would happen in the future? What could be prevented? “This doesn’t feel right,” she admitted in a hushed voice. “Something’s not right about this guy. And something’s not right about how you just brought him in and are just refusing to tell us who he is or why he’s here.”

“You two wouldn’t be acting like this if you had nothing to hide.” 

Gil looked at J.T. He was right. Dani was secretly happy that they agreed on this. But then again, neither one of them had much of a tolerance for bullshit, no matter who or where it came from. 

“You two still remember that we’re at a crime scene, right?”

It was true. The room was small and tightly packed. Their voices could carry. Plus One had to be listening to their conversation. Detective Powell looked over her shoulder. Several officers turned their heads and pretended that the walls and carpets were interesting and full of evidence. Plus One simply stood over the body with an ear turned keened in their direction. 

“I appreciate the concern,” the Lieutenant placated. “I do. But this isn’t the time or the place for it. Stop by my office after we finish up here and I’ll answer what questions I can.” The Lieutenant leaned around the pair. “You see anything over there, Kid?”

The three of them waited. Plus One was still quiet. The air around him seemed to crawl and ooze like mud with something grave. He looked between the corpse and the exit. A while later his gaze drifted up and to the side. His body remained, his mind seemed to be thousands of miles away. What was he seeing? What was he thinking? It wasn’t clear. 

“Bright? You still with us?” 

Bright. So that was his name. Bright looked at the Lieutenant when his name was called. And then to the three of them as a whole. He seemed older, somehow. Any color he had left in his face between the inspection and the elevator ride had disappeared completely. He clenched his right hand into a fist at his side, all the fascination and enthusiasm from earlier had disappeared completely. 

Slowly, the man walked away from the body and towards the elevator. Bright returned the NYPD case file to the Lieutenant. Apparently he had it this whole time. And of course, he didn’t say a fucking word as he turned to leave. Dani bristled. Her blood came to a rolling boil. One stranger under her skin in a matter of minutes. She needed to do something about it. 

“Mr. Bright,” she said. 

He stopped and turned around to look her in the eye, the polite gentleman he most likely wasn’t. Dani marched up to him. “Why are you really here,” she demanded. “I think you owe us an actual answer.”

“Bright, Dani-”

That was the Lieutenant ready to interject. And it was the Lieutenant who stopped and went quiet immediately when Bright put a hand up, signaling him to stop. He wasn’t angry, let alone defensive. He acted like he didn’t have anything to hide. Real rich from someone who didn’t say anything. Dani stood her ground even though she didn’t feel safe. Not with the way Bright was watching her. Observing her. 

Kahlil would look at her the same way sometimes. Look how that ended. Regardless, it was too late. She didn’t build her wall high enough and now she was unsafe, yet again. 

Bright’s eyes softened visibly and the air around them seemed to loosen and flow again. He knew something now. He found what he wanted. Could weaponize it against her whenever he pleased. Instead he got his notepad back out and tore off the page he had filled out to give to Dani. Dani accepted. And Bright continued on his way, but not before starting at the top of a new page, presumably to rewrite his notes. 

She watched the elevator doors closed with him inside. Detective Powell held up the paper and read through the . . . surprisingly pretty handwriting. 

  * Vic: Vanessa Hobbs
  * TOD: Last Night
  * Notes: 
    * Thrown champagne glass
    * Lingerie 
      * Victim was expecting someone. Not the killer. Intimate partner?
    * Bit tongue, injection site on neck 
      * Paralytic
  * Important: 
    * Inducing paralysis requires a great deal of skill. Blunt force trauma = easier. 
      * Copycat? 
        * See: The Quartet (The Surgeon, 1992)
  * Objective: Find the fourth victim before it’s too late. 



She suddenly became aware of the room again, as well as the people within it. The Lieutenant and her partner especially. Eager to shake away the feeling that something had permanently changed, she brought her attention back to the case at hand. “So what’s The Quartet?”

Arroyo paused, sucked in a breath and let out a long, heavy sigh. “Exactly what I was afraid of.” 

* * *

“. . .’Drisa?

. . .

“Edrisa.” 

. . . . . . . . . .

“Does she do this a lot?”

“I don’t think it would be any less concerning if she did.”

“Hey. Edrisa. Ms. Tanaka. Doctor. Night owl. C’mon.” 

Someone was snapping their fingers into her left ear. Edrisa startled, reached up to adjust her glasses, and looked around the room. Three dead bodies. Three living bodies. And no sign that the mysterious visitor was ever there except for the paper in her hand. Something about that struck a strange and hollow ache in her heart. 

She looked up to the three coworkers lined along the length of an examination table where the cadaver rested peacefully. Two detectives and their police lieutenant. They saw him too, right? “Where’d he go,” she asked them. 

Detective Powell wrinkled her nose at the question. “What?” 

Edrisa stumbled ahead to stand in the doorway of the examination room and stare down the hall. No trace of him. Even his face was already beginning to fade from her memory. But her head still felt light and like her toes and fingertips were dissolving into thin air. Did she imagine the whole encounter? 

No, not all of it. She remembered his lips. How they parted, ready to speak, and then closed again as he gave her a copy of the report and disappeared before she could stop him. Edrisa looked down at the report. A profile on their killer. Average height, white male, possibly a high functioning sociopath. And that was all her frazzled mind could glean before an unbidden inquiry slipped out. “There was someone here, right?”

“Yes, there was.” Detective Powell stepped around the table. “And you need to stay the hell away from him.” 

“Powell-”

“With all due respect, Lieutenant, I heard you the first time.” Powell directed a wary glare to her superior. “And I’m still not convinced.” 

Edrisa stood still and stiff as a board. Confrontation. She didn’t do well with confrontation. Were they mad at her? No, she didn’t think so. Were they mad with each other? It was hard to say. The tension between them was palpable. Detective Tarmel kept quiet as well, but seemed to be handling things better than she was. 

“Whatever. I have an address to find.” Powell marched out of the room. Lieutenant Arroyo followed behind with a defeated pace. Detective Tarmel gave Edrisa one last look that she couldn’t quite read and followed out after them. 

She was alone again. And so very lost. 

At least she could breathe again. 

She didn’t have anyone to attend to. The dead wouldn’t be badgering her for anything. The living didn’t want anything to do with her for the time being. So she had time to think. And to sort her thoughts, as she often needed to step back and do, scatterbrained as she usually was. The stranger had only been in the room for a few moments and there was already conflict. Powell and the stranger must have met before. Edrisa worked in a different department from major crimes, so maybe it was natural that she didn’t have the whole picture. 

Maybe it wasn’t even her business. 

Edrisa leaned against the wall and inspected the handwritten draft of the report. It was beautiful. Cursive lettering dressed the page like beads on a royal’s clothing. She followed each stroke, the occasional stray smudge of black ink, the small variance in the height amongst similar letters. At the bottom, a handful of words had been rewritten overtop a strip of correction tape. And a brown ring lightly stained the upper right hand corner of the report. Was he editing it this morning? 

A thought struck her and she trailed her fingertips along the underside of the page, finding the letters just barely embossed there. He wrote with a surprisingly gentle hand, put more care into writing this report than just the information therein. Who was he? She didn’t even know his name yet. 

_“And you need to stay the hell away from him.”_

Edrisa frowned, thinking back to the quiet stranger’s blue eyes and slimming black coat. Her metaphorical silent prince. She looked back down at the written report, at the curves and the stains, and the little side notes he had written for no one but himself, insights into this thought process that she didn’t notice before but that set her heart aflutter nonetheless. You could tell a lot about a person from their handwriting, after all. So what led Detective Powell to say something like that? 

Well, maybe he _was_ a little bit strange. It’s not every day that you get a handwritten report from a coworker who just shows up. But she was a little strange, too. From one oddball to another, she wasn’t about to assume the worst in someone when she didn’t know enough about them. Edrisa resolved to stick around a little more, to watch a little more, to learn a little more. And then she would make that judgment call herself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Feel free to comment below and let me know what you think.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feel free to drop a comment! I look forward to seeing you in the next chapter!


End file.
